Catharsis
by TalcolmMucker
Summary: [Post TTOI and post DW S9, spoilers for both] Malcolm Tucker needs to find a new purpose in life, when he discovers a particular American diner he's never noticed before. Inside he meets Clara Oswald, a charming young woman with some apparent emotional baggage. The two find themselves drawn to each other, despite all the strange circumstances surrounding their backgrounds.
1. Chapter 1

**Catharsis**

Malcolm got out of jail on good behaviour, after only four years in prison. It wasn't all bad; three meals a day, plenty of quiet time to reflect. In fact, for most of he his stay behind bars he had been nearly silent. The only times he spoke was when absolutely necessary, and when some fuckhead tried to get uppity with him. That's when he would let loose the tirade of expletives that had built up inside him, using his most graphically violent imagery and instantly made himself a local legend among his fellow convicts. The guards had no clue, however. They, along with the other prison staff, thought of him as a genuinely remorseful inmate who wanted to pay penance for his crimes. And so he was released early, for being such a lovely, obedient, white-collar criminal.

Now that he was free again, he vowed to not ever return to the political scene. They had stolen enough of his life. Now it was time to live for himself. Malcolm time. Maybe he could travel. Or start a band. Or get really into gardening. It didn't matter what he did, as long as he was the master of his own destiny, from this point forward.

He liked his house, so he refused to give it up, but he decided to no longer frequent his usual haunts, not from fear of running into shadows from his previous life, but out of disgust. He didn't even watch the news anymore, he was so fucking sick of everything he had been a part of. How completely he had lost himself, so willingly sold his soul to the darkness just to pretend like he was in control of that fucking circus of walking, talking piles of shit. He needed a new regular hideout, somewhere with a decent cup of tea, some croissants, and an atmosphere in which he could collect his thoughts.

That's when he discovered an American-style 50s diner that he had never noticed before on the edge of town. Probably no croissants, but it had potential. It certainly wasn't the kind of place anyone else would expect to find him in. He liked the element of surprise.

As to be expected, the interior was kitschy, retro, and included a portrait of Elvis along the far wall, and a statue of Marilyn on the counter. The cheesiness was oddly charming somehow. He found himself smirking as he slid into one of the red booths. The tabletop was smooth, clean, with little metallic flecks to give it that nostalgic aesthetic. Neon lights ringed the mouldings, casting the whole place in a warm glow. Malcolm settled in.

A waitress approached the table. She was wearing a blue little dress complete with apron and high top shoes, her chestnut hair tied back in a neat bun at the back of her neck. She had enormous brown eyes, and they were looking at him in a curiosity that led him to believe she was interested in more than just his drink order. He wondered why her ruby lips were parted in that way, like she was out of breath.

Perhaps she had a thing for older men.

"Hi there," he greeted her finally, if only to break the awkward silence. "Can I get a Fanta please?"

She blinked at him, fumbling for her stack of order slips. "Yeah, sure, of course!" She jotted it down. She walked away a few paces, then doubled back to his table. "Erm… sorry, do you… do you recognize me?"

Malcolm shifted in his seat to look at her straight-on. Her face was spectacularly round, almost impossibly so. She looked to be half his age. Very pretty. He was certain he would have known if he had met her before. "Should I? I'm sorry but no, I don't recognize you. Have we met?"

She was still staring at him, as though she couldn't believe he was there. He half expected her to reach out and touch him to confirm that he was indeed substantial, not an apparition. He wouldn't have minded her touching him.

"Oh. Well, didn't… Didn't we meet in Nevada?"

"Nevada?" What a strangely specific location. "No, I've never been to Nevada."

"Really?" She bit her lip. It wasn't meant to be provocative, but it was. Then again, after four years in prison, anything with tits was looking pretty enticing to him. He could have humped a fucking statue if it looked at him the way she was. "Weird. You look just like someone, I mean, _identical_. You could be his twin."

"Is that so? He must be a handsome devil then," he jested, smiling.

"You even have the same ego," she threw back at him, playfully. Her smile was lovely. Malcolm was suddenly very glad he had chosen to enter this particular diner. "Same accent too. Glasgow?"

"Aye, Glasgow. Are you sure you're not confusing me with a, erm… public figure?" He didn't want to lead her too much, but maybe she recognized him from his unfortunately public arrest. He had occasionally made it to the papers before that, when those useless wastes of skin fucked up so bad they needed to use him as a scapegoat. Certainly there had been plenty of media coverage regarding his… past.

The waitress seemed intrigued. "Tell you what, I'll grab that Fanta, you have a look at this, and then we'll chat some more, yeah?" She handed him a menu, and as he took it their fingers made the briefest contact- it was almost like a static shock, a sudden burst of energy surged through him, and then it was gone as she turned to grab his drink. Befuddled, he set to examining their edible wares.

But in between glances at the menu, his eyes kept wanting to follow her movements, to study her. Why was he so fascinated by her? Surely he couldn't have been that desperate for female attention; though it had certainly been long enough. It was like watching an eclipse: he knew he shouldn't stare, but damn the consequences he wanted to see, as if he could somehow discover some long-lost mystery that everyone else would miss as they averted their eyes.

Before long she was on her way back to his table, Fanta in hand. He quickly forced himself to look at the menu, but found it suddenly difficult to read. _Get a fucking grip, Malcolm._ She set the glass on the table, then settled into the seat across from him unexpectedly. He couldn't help but chuckle.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, darling. I'll only bore you. And besides, I think the other customers might get jealous…" He looked around, but found that the diner was actually rather empty aside from the two of them.

"I can check in on the others just soon as they show up. And I seriously doubt you could bore me. I'm very easily entertained." She held out her hand. "Clara. Clara Oswald. And you are?"

Malcolm hesitated. If she didn't recognize his face from the news, maybe she would recognize his name… and then instantly regret she ever took a seat across from him, and then she would awkwardly find a way to escape. Dreading what would happen next, he sighed, and introduced himself. "Malcolm Tucker. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Oswald." He grasped her hand in his; it was soft, and warm. He fought the desire to kiss the back of her hand. Not that he was particularly gallant, he just wanted to feel her skin against his lips… _Fucking cool it, Malcolm._ They shook briefly, then he waited for the realization to set in.

But Clara was unfazed. She just smiled back at him, and rested her elbows on the table. "So tell me, Malcolm, what's your story?"

Then she didn't know. He should have expected as much. A girl her age was hardly likely to be interested in politics, let alone the fate of one particular media strategist. A wave of relief washed over him. But she was still asking to know what he was all about. How could he present his background in a way that wouldn't result in her sidling away? He had to be clever. He was good at being clever.

"Well, I've just recently come back into town, really. Been on an extended holiday."

"Ooh, lovely, where did you go?"

A thought came to him then. Maybe he didn't need to be clever. He ventured with the truth. "Prison."

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up. She didn't run. "Really? You don't seem the type." She lowered her voice and leaned in closer, as though they were conspiring. "What'd you do?"

"Perjury. Mostly."

Her eyes seemed to actually light up at that. "I see. So you're a liar then."

"The best. To a fault, it would seem. Though I guess in the end I didn't lie so well."

Clara sat up, straightening her posture. "Then you really haven't met me then. Because I'm the universally undefeated champion of lying," she boasted. "And I've never gone to jail for it," she added, a playful stab.

"Is that so? Well, I have my theories on why people might be inclined to believe you…" Malcolm gave her a lingering look. He had no idea what was happening here, but he knew that he liked it. Nothing was going as he expected; it was like trying to play chess against a fucking unicorn.

She seemed to be enjoying his implied flattery well enough. Then she remembered suddenly, "I haven't actually taken your order yet. Did you want anything to eat?"

"Oh, yeah, erm...how about some… cheese fries? Christ, can't you just call them fucking chips?" The second bit slipped out before he could stop himself. She laughed and grabbed the menu, untroubled by his comment.

"This is an American diner, gotta keep with the theme, _dude,_ " she explained, the last word emphasized as though it should have some special meaning. She watched for his reaction. Not sure what she was getting at, Malcolm shrugged. She almost looked disappointed. She disappeared behind the counter to deliver his order.

Malcolm wiped his face with one hand as he tried to make sense of all that had occurred thus far. He looked around: still no other customers. Was he dreaming? Did he die in prison and this was an unexpected form of purgatory? He certainly wasn't going to just waltz into heaven, he knew that much. And things were too odd to be heaven anyway. If he was dreaming, then he could get control of the situation. If this was purgatory, he would have to prove his worth. He felt equal to the task.

When Clara returned, and he hadn't been so sure that she would, she clasped her hands together on the table and looked him directly in the eye, suddenly quite serious.

"No lying. You really don't know me?"

"Not yet. But I'd very much like to," he admitted.

Her lips cracked a smile for a brief moment, before returning to the grave, hard line. "I mean it, you can't be playing games with me. If this is some kind of elaborate joke, I swear…" Were her eyes getting all watery?

"Whoa, whoa, hey, listen. I don't know who you think I look like. But obviously he means a lot to you. Now I've done my time for the lies I told before. I'm done with that. Of course, the little lies are all fun and good, but I promise you: I am not that man, whoever he is. I've never met you before. But I'm glad I have now." He felt like she had some method of truth extraction, a psychic dentist with giant doe eyes and a great set of tits and something strange, almost _otherworldly_ about her. He couldn't stop himself from admitting the things he normally would never have uttered aloud, let alone to a complete stranger. Had she slipped something into his Fanta?

The pretty waitress nodded. "Good. Thank you. I mean, it's nice to meet you too. Sorry, it's just… well, it's a very complicated story. And you really, _really_ remind me of him."

"That much is clear. He must have done quite a number on you then, what with how quickly you can change your mood. You're like a fucking bipolar traffic accident, I don't understand you and I can't look away." When he realized how that probably sounded, he immediately backpedaled. "No offense, of course. I just meant you're unpredictable and you're beautiful." _Wow. laying it on a little thick there, aren't we?_ He actually covered his mouth after that, though he attempted to make it look casual.

Clara beamed at him. "How long did you say you were in jail for?"

"I didn't. Four years. Could have been five, but I was a good boy. Early release."

"Ah, I see. Am I the first woman you've talked to then?"

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "For an extended period of time? Perhaps."

She laughed, though it wasn't malicious. "Okay, then I guess I can forgive you calling me a 'bipolar traffic accident.' Haven't heard that before. Very...abstract."

"I'm just getting started, Clara. You have no idea how colorful my words can get."

"I look forward to hearing the full spectrum then. Back in mo', I'm going to check on those fries." She stood and headed for the kitchen, stealing a backwards glance at him before disappearing behind the swinging doors.


	2. Chapter 2

Clara slipped into the kitchen and immediately leaned against the wall beside the door. She took a deep breath. This was only meant to be a quick stop by her place to wrap up some loose ends… Ashildr was out doing the same, and due back at any time. How had he managed to find their diner? She was certain she had cloaked it properly, with a psychic field that was supposed to make it so terribly mundane that nobody would take a second look at it. And of all people, it had to be him…

With each test she was understanding more and more that he truly was _not_ the Doctor, but her eyes and ears refused to accept it. Sure, his hair was cropped a bit closer, but that was how he had looked when he first regenerated. His eyes were the same: piercing seafoam, flashing with cunning. His face, every line she had memorized was there. Same height and build. Though he had a slightly different fashion sense, it still reminded her of the Doctor: his steely grey jumper was slim-fitted and minimalistic, something the Time Lord certainly could have been seen wearing.

And his voice… it was seriously the same voice. Plus a few expletives here and there, of course, but otherwise an exact replica. Though the things he was saying… definitely more forthright than the Doctor had ever dared to be. She had to focus on that. Malcolm was saying all the things she had always wanted to hear, that her Gallifreyan "friend" never could.

 _He is not the same man. He is Malcolm Tucker, and you need to stop being weird before you scare him off._ Clara straightened up, smoothed her dress, and procured some cheese fries from the TARDIS' food machine. Convenient, that. She smoothed the front of her dress, then pushed through the doors and returned to the table where Malcolm sat patiently.

He looked so openly pleased to see her, not the fries, though he politely ate a few. Clara sat across from him again. She liked that he didn't look away from her after a few moments of gazing; normally the Doctor would have averted his eyes at some point. But Malcolm's eyes were fixed on her, determined to not miss a single expression.

"So, Malcolm. Tell me more. What should I know about you?"

"Am I being interrogated? Frankly, I've had my fill of that for a dozen lifetimes. What about you? You haven't told me a thing aside from your name. It's only fair."

He had a good point. Surely his comment about a dozen lifetimes was purely coincidental. Clara dismissed it. "Okay, well, I'm from Blackpool, used to be a school teacher at Coal Hill, and then I started traveling a bit. A lot, actually."

"With the bloke that looks like me?" Malcolm guessed.

"Erm… yeah."

"And how'd that go?"

Clara couldn't tell if he was asking about the travelling itself or travelling with the Doctor. She was certain he was being intentionally vague, to see how she would answer. She knew better than to discuss previous relationships (or lack thereof) with a new fellow though.

"It was pretty fantastic, actually. Saw a lot of strange places, had some adventures, a couple of close calls. Overall very rewarding." She tried her best to be ambiguous.

"And so one day you just decided, 'Enough is enough, now I'm going to go be a waitress in a hole-in-the-wall diner?'" Or did _he_ decide that?" His eyes were shrewd as he watched her face.

Clara contemplated how best to answer that. "Let's just say it was mutual. It was time to part ways, so we did."

Malcolm took a few more bites of his fries. "Okay. So, if you travelled together so much, then how could he not remember you?"

Clara's eyes went wide. "What?"

"When I came in, you asked if I recognized you. I can't imagine that anyone who's spent any amount of time with you could forget a face like yours, so why would you ask that? Why did you assume he wouldn't know you immediately?"

"Wow, nothing gets past you, does it? You're incredibly perceptive. It's almost spooky." She hoped complimenting him would deflect the line of questioning.

"I made my living by noticing details and using them to my advantage. Even the tiniest speck can prove useful when tipping the scales in your favor." He paused to sip his Fanta. "Well?"

Clara struggled to keep her composure. It was all still so fresh in her mind… the way he had looked at her but couldn't _see her_. At that moment she had known how the Doctor felt when she wasn't able to accept his new regeneration. It was excruciating, looking into the eyes of someone she knew so well, but seeing none of the affection that had been abundant seemingly only moments before. She felt tears welling up. She blinked them away angrily, refusing to let Malcolm see her cry.

"Oh God, did he have dementia or something? Am I being a completely insensitive prick?"

He reached out and gently covered her hand with his. His face was genuinely concerned for her, his distinctive eyebrows mashed together and his eyes wide with worry. Clara managed a small smile.

"Look, you don't have to talk about it. I shouldn't have pried. Sorry. Let's get back to the smiling and the flirting, yeah? I liked that bit." Malcolm grinned.

A laugh erupted from her. He was very sweet, in a brash, sweary kind of way.

"There we go, that's better. Shall I play something on the jukebox? Let's lighten the mood in here a little." Malcolm swiftly got out of his side of the booth and made his way to the jukebox, illuminated by its many colored lights. Clara rested her chin on her arm over the back of the booth and watched as he pressed the buttons to turn the pages of songs. "Any requests?"

"I've heard them all a thousand times. You pick," she told him. She was anxious to hear what he would choose. Would he pick something playful and flirty? Something masculine and edgy? Was he an Elvis fan? James Brown? Patsy Cline?

"Aha! This one. This one's for you, Clara," Malcolm announced as he slid coins into the machine and pressed the button of the track he wanted to hear. He waited for the music to start, and eyed her with a goofy smirk.

She heard the drums. And the guitar riff. And then Clara covered her mouth as the tears finally won, blazing hot trails down her cheeks. _Pretty Woman._

It flashed before her then: _in that medieval arena, somehow, the Doctor spotted her, despite her hiding behind a parapet. She couldn't believe it, she must have imagined that he was looking directly at her. Until he started the intro from_ Pretty Woman _on his guitar, and beckoned her closer to him. She asked him how he had been able to see her. "When do I not see you?"_

The torture of the memory ripped through her. She doubled over with a choking sob of grief.

"Oh, Christ, I've fucking done it again!" Malcolm threw his hands up in dismay. Quickly, he forced the jukebox away from the wall, and yanked the power cord, cutting the song short. In the silence that followed, he crossed the floor and crouched before her. He placed his hand on her cheek. "Is there nothing left that _doesn't_ remind you of him?" he asked, hardly above a whisper.

Clara fought to regain her composure. As he looked into her eyes, he wiped away her tears with his thumbs. "I'm sorry, this all happened so recently… I guess I'm still healing."

"Of course, darling. Don't apologize. Just tell me what I can do to help."

She took a deep, shuddery breath. "Kiss me."

Malcolm searched her expression. "Beg pardon?"

"Kiss me," she repeated. "Please."

He hesitated, confused, but then slowly he brought his face closer to hers. She closed her eyes as his hand slid from her face to the back of her neck, and at last Malcolm pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle, chaste, polite. And over too quickly. As he pulled away, Clara's hands extended toward him and clutched the front of his jumper. She pulled him back in and kissed him again, hard, desperate, hungry. With that unspoken permission from her, he finally let his guard down and returned her passion, and for several moments they were simply lost in the taste of each other. She hadn't realized just how starved for affection she was until then; she hadn't been intimate with anyone since Danny, and that felt like eons ago. _Stop comparing him to the men from your past,_ she chided herself.

Malcolm pushed her back, tenderly, allowing the kiss to reach a conclusion at last. They were both a little out of breath as they stared into each other's eyes.

"Wow," he uttered quietly.

Clara withheld a giggle.

"That was… unanticipated, to say the least. I'm… er, I'm not entirely sure what's happening here. Care to enlighten me?"

"Well, I think that's what most people refer to as 'snogging,'" she teased, hoping the sarcasm would brighten the atmosphere a touch.

"Thank you, _Clarissa_ , for truly _explaining it all_." He dished the sarcasm right back at her. "Now, really though, what's going on? Have I slipped into another fucking dimension?"

"Maybe you have. Maybe I'm an alien, determined to lure you in with my charm."

"If that's the case, then fucking bust out the anal probes, and get on with it! Don't fucking tease me," he joked, and they both shared a laugh. Then his expression shifted, and he was looking at her so intently, Clara felt as though he might have been able to read her thoughts. "Seriously, Clara, Undefeated Champ of Lies. Tell me the truth. What's the situation? And what's next?"

Clara bit her lip in thought.

"Don't-" Malcolm immediately pulled her lower lip free with his thumb. "Don't fucking do that. It's not fair."

"Not fair?"

"It's too sexy. Now come on. Truth time."

Clara blushed. She carefully considered how to respond. The answer quickly made itself clear to her. "Catharsis," she said, keeping it short and simple.

That seemed to surprise him. His eyebrows shot up, and he looked away for a moment, absorbing it. Then he returned his gaze to hers. "Okay. And then what?"

She didn't want to sound callous, or cold, but he had requested the truth. "Closure?" she answered cautiously.

Another pause to register her reply. "I see." Malcolm stood then, and began to pace. She remained seated in the booth and watched as he stepped this way and that, every now and then glancing over at her as though weighing his options. "Hang on," he suddenly remarked, his eyes sweeping the diner, "Where the fuck is everyone? Are you the only person working here?"

"At the moment, yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Well don't you have a boss or a manager? Customers? Cooks? Cashiers?"

"I _am_ the boss," she declared. "As for the others… well, they come and go. On slow nights, we keep the staffing… minimal."

"Whatever, doesn't matter. Right. Okay. Let me make sure I've got this right, yeah? You've got some fucking severe emotional trauma going on, over a guy who apparently looks exactly like me, and I, by some random fucking happenstance, wandered in here, completely by chance. And now, you're hoping to what, fuck it out of your system? And then it's curtains, 'thanks for the shag Malcolm but can you fuck off now, pretty please?' Is that it?"

"Wow, aren't you being a bit presumptuous? Who said I wanted a shag?"

"Oh, come the fuck on, Clara, don't play fucking coy with me now, okay? 'Catharsis?' You might as well have said, 'bend me over this fucking table right now and fucking fuck my brains out already.' It's very obvious, Clara, hate to fucking break it to you."

She couldn't believe how explicit he was suddenly. He _had_ warned her; his language was indeed colorful. And if she was entirely honest with herself, it was somehow arousing. But she wasn't about to give in so easily.

"You want to know what's obvious?" she challenged him, settling back into the booth, relaxed and unperturbed.

"Do tell," he sneered.

"How long it's been since _you've_ had a proper shag."

"Oh? How so?"

"Well, for starters, four years in prison. I doubt anyone dared to come near you in there, lest they get the bollocking of their life. And then, there's that ring you're wearing," she noted, indicating with her chin toward his left hand. Malcolm didn't look. "You're married, or at least you were. Maybe you still wear it out of respect or habit, who knows. But I'm willing to bet she hasn't satisfied you beyond the compulsory 'anniversary conjugation' since the bloody wheel was invented. Am I right?"

"Don't you think for a fucking second that you know Stevie-fucking-Nicks about my marriage."

Clara might have overstepped some boundaries with that one. But she was willing to press her luck.

"Fine. You still decided you wanted me within all of ten seconds after you got in here. I could smell the dry spell on you like piss on a tramp." She could be colorful too.

"Right. Okay. My place or yours?"

That threw her off guard. "What?"

"Clearly we've established that we both want to fuck, so enough with the fucking foreplay already."

"Have we? I don't recall actually hearing your reasoning for how my alleged desire for you is so obvious."

Malcolm stepped closer, his tall figure looming over her. "You want to hear my reasoning, do you?"

"Out with it. Don't stall."

Another step closer. "This isn't stalling, darling. This is fucking dramatic effect." He leaned over her, one hand planted on the table and the other on the back of the booth, essentially trapping Clara against the wall. His approach continued, slow and intimidating, but not threatening. "Did I forget to cite my references, Teacher?" he whispered.

"Yeah, might have to mark you up for that," Clara replied, playing along.

"Oh, please, not a mark up, anything but that." Malcolm brought his face in close, as though to kiss her again, then faked out and swerved around to her ear, his breath warm on her neck. "Reference one," he pressed his mouth to her neck, just under her jaw. The contact sent a rush of warmth through her, but she did her best to remain stoic. "Increased heart rate." He lingered there for a moment, and she felt his tongue against her skin. Meanwhile, he was closing in on her in the small booth, his leg firmly pinned hers against the back of the seat, disallowing any ladylike cross-legged modesty. "Reference two," he pulled his face back to stare into her eyes, leaving only the slightest bit of distance between them. It would be so easy, Clara could stop him right there and just kiss him again, but she let him continue. Malcolm took one index finger and ever so delicately traced it along her cheek. "Blushing." His fingertip circled around to her mouth. "Reference three. Lip biting. And may I add, you did that only moments after setting eyes on me." He licked his own lips then. Clara's heart was all fluttery. "Reference four."

"There's more?" She interrupted, hating the anticipation suddenly.

"Last one. And I think you'll find this one the most telling," Malcolm insisted. Then he placed his other hand on her knee and slowly slid it up her thigh, hiking up her skirt as he went. She didn't stop him. His hand continued its course, and his eyes were the devastating hue of a stormy sea as he watched her expression intently. She was helpless to stop the small shudder that shot through her as his fingers reached the seam of her knickers. His touch paused there for a moment, and his unwavering gaze intensified as his eyelids lowered slightly, going all bedroomy. Meeting no resistance from her, she felt one finger stroke the crux of her knickers, sending another wave of heat through her. "Just as I suspected," he remarked with a smirk, then leaned in to whisper in her ear once more, "you're wetter than a fucking sprinkler in an underwater monsoon."

Clara giggled uncontrollably, and he affectionately nuzzled her neck.

"There you have it. I'd say that's some pretty conclusive evidence, wouldn't you?"

"Shut up," she commanded, then made sure of it by snogging him with all the desire she could no longer deny, given Malcolm's testimony. They carried on, all lips and tongues and hands, making as much contact as they could. His finger was still working against the outside of her knickers, driving her positively mad.

Finally he broke away. Both of them were quite short of breath. "So. I'll ask again. My place or yours?" Malcolm reiterated.

Given the fact that her place was either the sprawling TARDIS beyond the door on the far end of the diner, or her old, small flat, she opted for a chance to see what kind of spot a man like Malcolm lurked in while he wasn't in jail or seducing young women. "Your place," she answered. _God, this is really happening._

"Okay then. Time to close up shop, boss lady." Malcolm disentangled himself from her, then lent a hand to help her out of the booth. A bit flustered, she had to feign at least some semblance of closing procedures to keep up the farce that they were indeed in a functional diner. She rounded the cash register and pretended to input some special codes, gave the counter a quick wipe with a nearby towel, turned off some light switches. Meanwhile Malcolm watched, looking hungry and amused. She returned to the booth and grabbed his half-drunken Fanta and his barely-touched cheese fries.

"Oh, yeah, sorry I didn't finish them, I got a wee bit distracted." he uttered. There was a pause, and then he continued. "Wait. Did _you_ make those fries then?"

Clara gave him a wink and refused to answer. She took the unfinished items into the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

As Clara busied herself cleaning, Malcolm waited in a state of perplexed satisfaction. _What a fucking evening this is turning out to be,_ he mused. _You still got it, Malcolm. Even if it is just because you remind her of her fucking old flame. We'll see how much she fucking remembers him after tonight._ He hadn't been this giddy to take a woman home in far too long; he hated that she had detected his "dry spell" so easily. Now he felt obligated to prove that he certainly hadn't forgotten what to do. And he would prove as much, or he'd commit himself to the fucking monastery the next day.

He wandered over toward the door and idly looked out the front glass. It was true that nobody at all seemed interested in the diner's milkshakes or burgers or sexy little waitress-boss. _How does a place like this stay in business?_ he wondered. By the time he realized he really didn't care, Clara's footsteps sounded just behind him. He turned to smile at her.

"All set?" he asked.

"Yep."

"Okay then." He held out his hand for her to take. "Come with me." He paused. "You know, after we get to my place." He winked.

Clara's chuckle was delightful as she took his hand and the two of them stepped out into the evening air. Malcolm's car was there in the empty lot. He unlocked it remotely, and politely opened the door for the passenger side. Clara was about to duck in when he grabbed her arm, firm but harmless.

"Forgive me one more paranoia check," he started, and she waited patiently. "This isn't a fucking set up, right? You're haven't been hired by some skeevy fucking journalist with a death wish, have you?"

Clara's face was unimpressed, and she was openly judging him for his sudden onset mania. She wouldn't even answer, just glowered at him with her enormous brown eyes.

"Right. Of course not. Just er… confirming. Never mind." He released his grip on her arm and she slipped into the seat. He shut the door and, as he made his way around to the driver's side, berated himself internally. _Well aren't we just a fucking pair of neurotic damaged goods? Christ, Malcolm. Keep the fucking conspiracy theories to yourself._ He got in the car, and started it up.

After a few moments of somewhat uncomfortable silence, Clara spoke up. "Why would you think I've been hired by a journalist?"

Malcolm let out a huff of breath through his nostrils. "My job required me to be… abrasive, to put it very fucking lightly. So I suspect there could be some fucking retards out there who are still butthurt about not being able to play in any fucking reindeer games, with wee little voodoo dolls of me, waiting to fucking pounce on any opportunity to fucking fist me up the fucking arse." He took a breath. Glancing at her, he added, "Metaphorically speaking."

"Oh yeah? You? Speaking in metaphors? Well, I never!" Clara joked. "Crikey. What _was_ your job, exactly?"

"I was a media strategist at Number Ten. Director of Communications." He should have been more careful, should have danced around it. But for whatever reason, he felt the need to tell her the truth. She had, after all, been rather emotionally vulnerable only a short while ago. He owed her some vulnerability in return.

"Sounds fancy."

"It was a fucking shit-fest. That job ate me alive. I'm never going anywhere near politics again."

Clara nodded in approval. "Any thoughts on what you'll do now?"

"You know, I'm thinking of becoming a gigolo," he quipped. She snorted, immediately covering her mouth in embarrassed laughter. "Honestly though, I've got no fucking clue. Are you hiring?"

"Sorry, not at the moment."

"That's probably for the best. Not sure I could get any work done if you were my boss." That made her smile. She reached over and squeezed his thigh.

"Oh yeah? Would you get too distracted?" Clara's hand slid further up his leg.

"Easy, darling, let's not cause any bipolar traffic accidents, okay? We'll get to my place soon and then you can distract me all you like."

She pouted but obliged, leaving him alone.

For whatever reason, the drive seemed to take much longer on the way home than it had getting to the diner. Wasn't that always the way of it? He found himself hoping his house would impress her. He was pretty proud of it; he liked to think he had an eye for tastefully minimal decor, without being a pouf about it. Certainly his little library of a book collection would strike her fancy. At the very least he knew it was clean. He had spent the first days of freedom purging and scouring and removing all evidence of his role in government.

The silence in the car was thrumming with anticipation. They seemed to both be lost in their heads, wondering how the rest of the night would play out. It was a nice feeling. Malcolm felt alive again, perhaps for the first time in many, many years. He wanted it to last. He couldn't go back to being a fucking husk. He would sooner off himself.

Clara broke the silence and pulled him out of his suddenly dark thoughts. "I have to ask, are you still married or what?"

He knew he should have ditched the ring. He sighed. "No, I'm not. We split years ago. Finalized the divorce when I got sent to the nick." His knuckles went white as he clutched the wheel. "The ring isn't for her, just so you know. It serves many purposes. To keep power-hungry civil servants and the like who think they could boost their careers by sucking a few knobs at bay, to give the party the sense that I'm stable enough to be married, and to remind me not to make promises I don't intend to keep."

Clara took a moment to absorb his comments. "I see... Did you ever love her?"

"I'm sure I believed I did. But looking back, it was more convenient than it was romantic. I think in the back of our minds we both knew it was about financial stability and reputation and all that. So no, I didn't love her." An irritation was growing within him, and he couldn't stop himself as he felt it surging toward Clara. "Do you feel better now?" He hissed. "Is your conscience fucking clearer knowing that the stranger you intend to sleep with is a fucking _unwed_ stranger? Will your dignity remain fucking intact now?" He was suddenly seething, and he knew he shouldn't be.

Clara was in a state of disbelief, her eyes huge again and misted over. "I'm sorry I don't want to ruin a bloody marriage, okay? I was _actually_ trying to be considerate of you by asking that, not looking out for myself! Don't assume everyone is as selfish as you are!"

"I am _not_ fucking selfish, okay? You don't even know me so don't act like you fucking do. Maybe your fucking traveling pal was selfish and you're getting it confused in that pretty head of yours again, huh? I am Malcolm fucking Tucker, and I am one of the most unselfish blokes you're likely to ever meet!"

Clara leaned forward so he could see her glaring at him out of the corner of his eye as he drove. "You better be prepared to back that claim up," she warned him coolly.

It took longer than it should have, but Malcolm eventually registered her implication. And then he was excited all over again. Was he, the former fucking master of spin, getting mind-fucked by a pretty little waitress? How confusing this courtship was becoming. His emotions were getting all muddled up and then spit out into a roiling ball of fucking _want_. Wanting to touch her, wanting to make her squirm, wanting to make her want him. It was exhausting, really. But now he knew; she was saying she wanted an unselfish lover tonight.

Malcolm calmed down, ready to turn the tables again. "Do you have a safe word?"

Even in the dim light he could see that made her skin flush a marvelous shade of mauve. She didn't have one prepared it seemed. After some consideration, she answered, "Erm… 'Soufflé.'"

An interesting choice. "Good," was all he said. He let her mind race, contemplating _his_ fucking implication. Silence resumed between them; it crackled around the edges with wonderful tension like static electricity.

Finally they had arrived. Malcolm parked the car and switched off the engine, then gave Clara a long look. "Here we are. Passing the point of no return, no backward glances, etcetera."

"Did you just reference _Phantom_?"

"Have you seen it? Great show. Love the bit with the chandelier."

"I didn't take you for a musicals man," Clara commented.

"Well if there's anything we've established this evening, it's that appearances mean fucking sod all. Shall we?"

"Let's." There was no hesitation from her.

They exited the car and made their way to his front door. He tried to unlock it, but she stopped the task abruptly, pressing him against the door with surprising strength for such a slight-framed woman. On her toes, pulling his face to hers, she snogged him forcefully. It made his head swim with desire. Nobody had _ever_ kissed him that way, so insistent, so wanton…

A car drove by, and a neighbor was walking their dog along the sidewalk, meaning their little display of lust had likely been observed, but he didn't give a single fuck. He just wanted to explore the way Clara's tongue felt mingling with his, to cup her perky arse in both hands, to listen to the small sounds she made in the process. They parted at last to gasp for air.

"My house is _behind_ the door, love," he whispered with a grin.

"Whoops. I thought maybe with you being out of a job and all…" She teased.

"Ouch."

"Shut up and open the bloody door already."

"Whatever you say, boss."

He finally unlocked the entrance to his home and they poured in. He flicked on the light switch, and spread his arms wide. "Welcome to Casa de Tucker." As Clara took in all the details, Malcolm dropped his keys off in the kitchen. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Ooh, lovely," she answered. She was searching the bookshelves, just as he predicted.

"Any preferences?"

"I'll have what you're having."

Whiskey neat then. He retrieved two tumblers from the cabinet, along with the bottle of Glenlivet 18 year single malt that he saved for special occasions. While he poured, he observed her exploring the many titles lining the walls.

"You've got a pretty decent collection here," Clara commented. She reached up and selected a book. " _Jurgen_ , eh? You would." She smiled and placed it back on the shelf, then walked over to the kitchen.

"It's a very insightful little story, actually," he argued.

"Full of beautiful women across multiple realms that he's able to seduce with his quick wit. Sounds familiar."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Your drink, Miss Oswald." He handed a tumbler to her.

They clinked their glasses together and sipped the amber liquid. Malcolm had expected her to struggle at least a little with the drink, but was surprised to find she merely licked her lips. He raised his eyebrows, impressed.

"Good stuff, that. Glenlivet?" she guessed.

"Aye. You're a fucking wonder, you know that?"

"Some would call me _impossible_ ," she retorted, and took another sip of her whiskey.

"I believe you."

"Well… here we are," Clara declared. Putting the pressure on him, or so she thought.

Malcolm sipped his drink unhurriedly. "Just so, darling," he agreed.

She narrowed her eyes on him. She was planning her next move, and he could hardly wait to see what she would do.


	4. Chapter 4

So he was leaving the first move to her then. _Fine by me._ Clara took a long draught of her whiskey; she hadn't had Glenlivet in years. And it gave her courage, which was likely Malcolm's purpose in sharing it with her. _Let's just get this party started._ Clara finished her drink in one gulp, causing Malcolm to stare open-mouthed at her; whether that was out of shock in seeing her accomplish such a feat or out of disgust for having not savored it, it didn't matter. The point was that he was paying attention.

She set the empty glass noisily on the kitchen counter, then promptly walked out of the room. Next, Clara headed straight for the stairs in the front entryway, knowing where they would lead her. She imagined the confused expression he would be wearing now, but made no attempt to look back. At the top of the stairs, she slipped out of her high tops, leaving them and her socks scattered across the hallway. She spotted a guest room (which was too small and simply decorated to be a master) as she undid her bun, letting her hair fall loose. She heard the first indications of movement downstairs, but continued on her mission. She passed a bathroom as she untied her apron and let that flutter to the floor. Finally at the end of the hall she reached the main bedroom. Malcolm's room. The buttons down the front of her dress were big and easy to undo for once; sometimes she hated how ridiculously tiny fasteners on women's clothes could be, especially in moments like this when she just wanted to be free of any and all garments. Her dress now unbuttoned, she slipped it down easily and stepped out of it, making her way toward his bed.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. She hadn't heard him on the stair at all, but he must have gotten sloppy when he noticed her trail of clothes. Clara was about to unhook her bra when she heard Malcolm speak from the doorway.

"Leave that bit to me, at least."

Clara looked back at him over her shoulder, letting him have a long look at her backside. "Come and get it then," she beckoned him.

Malcolm approached gradually, taking it all in. There was that flame in his eyes now, the one she had wanted to ignite, burning for her and her alone. No mysteries to solve, no planets to save, just a man wanting a woman with his entire being. The simplicity of it all was so gratifying; this was exactly what she needed.

At last he stepped behind her, and slowly ran his fingertips up her back and around her shoulders. He pulled her toward himself and languorously kissed her neck. It made her skin shiver up gooseflesh, and she was certain she felt him laugh against her neck a little in response. His hands slid down to the middle of her back, then in the next moment her bra was unhooked, the straps loose about her shoulders. Delicately, his fingers pushed the straps down the sides of her arms and Clara let the bra fall to the floor. She slowly rotated to face him.

Malcolm took a step back to admire her. Apparently he approved, but there was something abruptly complex about the way he looked at her in that moment. She had seen lust in him, amusement, confusion, admiration. This was something else entirely. She began to worry, reflexively.

"What is it?" she questioned.

His eyes were fixed on hers once more, not simply staring at her body. "You're fucking… pulchritudinous. Do you know that?"

Clara chuckled a little. "Wow, that's a word you don't hear every day. Someone paid attention in English class. Extra credit for you."

"No I mean it. Do you know how truly _radiant_ you are?" He stepped closer again, and pushed her hair out of her face. "You obviously know how to use your femininity, and very fucking well, I might add, but do you understand how absolutely, devastatingly beautiful you are?"

Clara blushed, surprised by such an outpouring of compliments from someone like Malcolm. She wasn't sure how to respond. Of course she knew she was fairly attractive, and she definitely used that to her advantage from time to time, but this wasn't just him saying she was "fairly attractive."

"You don't believe me."

"Well, it's hard to agree and not sound like I'm completely self-involved. But thank you, that's very sweet-"

"Clara. You should know that about yourself. And carry it with you in all that you do." He cupped her face with both hands. "There's a sadness behind your eyes… I don't know what or who caused it, but you shouldn't waste a single fucking moment feeling sad. Because you are a marvel, and you deserve the fucking world."

She was overwhelmed by his sincerity, and she felt tears welling up as he kissed her then. This kiss was different from the others; this was deliberate, and steeped with such raw emotion from both of them, it practically buckled her knees. He must have sensed her unstable stance, because he shifted to wrap his arms about her waist, holding her firmly in place as the kiss deepened. She reached up and ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck and pressed her body fully against his. His sweater was soft against her bare skin, his body warm just beyond the fabrics of his clothes. She had to resist the urge to tear them off of him; no doubt they were expensive, given the high-quality. Instead she pulled his jumper's collar out of her way and fixed her mouth on the side of his neck. Malcolm sighed blissfully.

"Bet you say that to all the girls, eh?" she whispered, half-jokingly.

"Oh, trust me, I fucking _don't_ ," he answered. "I meant it, you know. But if romance isn't what you're after…" Malcolm stepped back from her, and fixed his gaze on her in a way that could only be described as predatory. "Get on the fucking bed," he commanded.

Clara shivered excitedly. She turned and crept on top of the covers with her arse displayed prominently, then settled down onto his rather comfortable bed and waited.

Malcolm pulled off his jumper, then the tee beneath that, and revealed his lean yet notably muscled torso. She hadn't guessed that this fifty-something-year-old ex-politico would have been equipped with taut abs, defined pecs and strong arms. Clara's astonishment was apparently easy to see on her face, as Malcolm smirked and quirked an eyebrow.

"It's true what they say about prison," he commented, "Lots of time to hit the gym. Haven't been this fit since Frankie went to fucking Hollywood." He flexed, without showing off too much. Clara bit her lip in response to signal her approval. His smirk grew into a full-fledged grin. He made quick work of removing his trousers, and Clara found herself eager to see what was waiting within his boxer-briefs; the bulge left little to her imagination however. _Long limbs, long fingers, long_ everything _, it would seem…_

After making her wait untouched for nearly too long, he finally crawled onto the bed with her and promptly pinned her to the bed. "Right. You may be the boss of that wee fucking diner of yours, but here _I'm_ the fucking boss, got it?"

Clara nodded, compliant. She spent so much of her life being the one in control; this made for a pleasant change.

"I want to hear you say it," Malcolm asserted. His grip was tight on her wrists.

She wrinkled her nose as she grinned up at him. "You're the boss."

"Say it right," he commanded, grinding against her. He was rock hard, and it thrilled her.

"Erm… you're the… _fucking_ boss?" she ventured.

"That's the idea, darling, now say it like you fucking mean it." His eyes were smoldering with lust.

Clara squirmed under him with a strategic thrust of her hips. "You're the fucking boss!" she declared. Appeased, Malcolm bent to run his tongue along her collarbone and simultaneously released his hold on her wrists to squeeze her breasts. His tongue and hands lingered in their respective positions only a few moments before he began a slow trail down her body, which set her skin into a fervid state of craving. Clara arched her back as his tongue reached her navel and his hands seized her hips. Then all at once he pulled her to the edge of the bed; Clara made a small yelp in surprise. He was on the floor now, and he unhurriedly peeled off her underwear to leave her totally bare before him. He lifted her legs to rest on his shoulders, then looked up at her.

"You are now limited to the following phrases," Malcolm announced, and kissed the inside of her right thigh. "'Fuck yes, Malcolm,'" he kissed the inside of her left thigh and continued, "and 'Soufflé,' though I seriously fucking doubt you'll be using the second option. Got that?"

Clara giggled a little. She was trembling with impatience. "Fuck yes, Malcolm," she obliged.

"Such an obedient woman… you deserve a fucking treat. After this."

Malcolm set to work. Clara gasped as his tongue found her clit almost immediately, like some kind of sexual savant, and he took his time exploring what she wanted, tested how much pressure to use and how fast or slow his rhythm should be. In no time she was a panting, moaning mess on the covers. When he slipped one long finger inside her, Clara called out as instructed, "Fuck _yes,_ Malcolm!" and bucked her hips to guide him. His other hand reached up to seek out her nipple and pinched as he slipped a second finger inside her. In sensory overload, Clara was wriggling in ecstasy when Malcolm picked up the pace of his various titivations. Disallowed from saying anything else, she let out a mewling, "Ffffuck yes, Malcolm." She was close now, her body buzzing from her sex to her fingertips, and she was clutching the duvet in an attempt to make it last just a little longer…

"FUCK YES MALCOLM!" she exclaimed as her orgasm surged through her, pulsing; Malcolm eked out wave after wave with his tongue and hands.

When he finally relented, and began a slow kissing trail back up her body, Clara's body was still quaking as she attempted to catch her breath between small fits of laughter from the sheer pleasure of it all. She was certain nobody else had managed to leave her in this sort of state before: deliriously satiated, she was nearly hysterical.

Malcolm was face to face with her again with lips curved into a proud, amused smirk. "Did you enjoy that?" He questioned, knowing the answer full-well.

Clara laughed some more. "Do you really have to ask?"

Suddenly he rolled both of them to one side and gave her arse a stinging spank. It caught Clara off guard.

"Wrong answer," Malcolm scolded her, playfully.

 _Oh, so that's still going then._ Clara cleared her throat and corrected herself: "Fuck yes, Malcolm."

"There you go," he commended her and doled out a kiss. She could taste herself on his tongue. His fingers twined through her hair and he pressed against her, his cock hard against her hip through the fabric of his boxer-briefs. He broke the kiss and asked, "Remember that treat I mentioned?"

She was tempted to defy his mandate and reply with something other than her allowed phrases. She rather enjoyed a good spanking now and then, however Freudian it may have been. But she opted for compliance once again. "Fuck yes, Malcolm," she responded.

Malcolm shifted into his back, and indicated with his eyes toward his neglected erection. He grinned and wrinkled his nose a bit as he told her, "Well, go on then. Have fun with it."

Ever acquiescent, Clara sat up and made her way to her "treat." She ran her hands down his lightly sculpted abdomen. His skin was pleasantly milky-white, smooth and warm under her touch. She gripped the waistband of his underwear, tugged them down, and with his help removed them entirely, then tossed them unceremoniously to the floor. Her prediction had been accurate. _Long everything indeed._ She slowly licked her lips, making him wait. He watched her with curiosity, hardly daring to blink. Finally she dipped her head down, but made sure to tuck her hair behind her ears so he could observe as she leisurely ran her tongue along the underside of his cock. Malcolm exhaled quietly. For a moment, she teased the tip with her tongue, issuing another exhale of pleasure from him, then swiftly took him into her mouth. It was no easy task, she quickly discovered, but she was well-practiced and her gag reflex behaved itself. Likely he hadn't expected her to be so skilled in this particular arena, since he gasped when she was able to take nearly his entire length into her mouth. Clara kept her eyes on his expressions as she pleasured him. Before long, she felt his body tensing beneath her and she quickened her pace.

"Christ, you're fucking good at this," Malcolm remarked.

Clara carried on.

"Okay, okay, enough, seriously. I need to fuck you immediately."


	5. Chapter 5

Malcolm pushed Clara by the shoulders in order to halt her exquisite mouth from making him come too early, although he considered it a tremendous feat of self control; she continued to amaze him, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his air of one-night-stand-detachedness. _Keep it cool, Malcolm. She just wants to fuck her problems away and move on. Don't start catching feelings, you fucking sap._ He had to decide, and quickly, just how he would fuck her. His mind started racing through all the possibilities, and he found he wanted all of them: he could fuck her against the wall, or in the shower, he could bend her over the bathroom sink and watch her in the mirror, or over the dining table, or they could just get down and dirty on the fucking floor… In the back of his mind he kept a list of all the locations he wanted to rock her fucking world, but for now, he settled for the bed.

Already on his back, he opted for a smooth transition. "Right, get on top," he instructed her. "I want to see those pretty tits of yours bouncing like-"

Clara pressed her finger to his lips to stop him from talking. Likely she had gotten fed up with his similes by now, or perhaps she just wanted to imagine he was the man he looked like instead. No matter. Either way, she positioned herself, straddling him with half-lidded doe eyes. She bent over and kissed him, with her tongue deep in his mouth and her breasts pressed against his chest. Malcolm grabbed her arse with both hands, and gave one cheek a playful slap. That made her break the kiss and give him a cold look.

"Time out- that was uncalled for, I didn't say anything," she protested.

"Ah, but now you have." Malcolm spanked her other cheek.

"Hey! I said 'time out!' Oh, that's it, you're gonna get it now," she warned him. She straightened up and set to guiding his cock inside her, her expression devious. Malcolm was terribly excited by the idea of her taking sexual vengeance on him; his heart was racing. Then she was slowly lowering herself into him, unbearably slowly, to the point where he had to suppress the urge to grab her hips and thrust her down faster. He groaned. She was biting her lip again, and as he reached up to tease her nipples, it was finally too much for either of them to wait any longer. She lowered herself completely, and they both gasped with pleasure.

He let her take control of the pace to start; she was so very tight, and he didn't want to hurt her by being too rough too soon. He also suspected that empowering her would prove to be the most beneficial, for both of them. She liked to be in control, and he was more than happy to sit back and let her enjoy herself, especially if it felt this good… She was working up to a moderate rhythm, rolling her hips in a way that made Malcolm's breath come in short bursts as he continued to tweak her nipples. He recommissioned one hand to stimulate her clit with his thumb. She threw her head back and let out a delicious moan.

She was already beginning to tighten around him, and her thrusts had gone from meticulous and sensual to pure, carnal rutting. They were both grunting and panting, caught up in the sensations of each other, and the base desire that had lain dormant in each of them for far too long.

Malcolm had to take charge, or she'd let them finish too soon. "Okay, sweetheart. On your hands and knees. Now," he demanded. She didn't want to listen. She kept at it, thrusting harder, trying to make him come right then and there. Focusing all of his willpower, he managed to shove her off, a bit roughly but she didn't seem to mind that as much as the fact that he had stopped her from getting off just then.

After they were separated, they clambered into the new position hurriedly, desperate to continue. Once she had got on all fours as she was told, Malcolm quickly inserted himself from behind and held onto her hips to start up a powerful series of thrusts that caused her to cry out again, "Fuck! Yes! Malcolm!" That made him smile, and he drove into her again and again until both of them were breathing hard and slick with sweat. If he had felt alive earlier, now he felt fucking immortal. It didn't matter if she only wanted him because he reminded her of somebody else; all that mattered now what how wet and tight she was, how she was throwing her hips back against him as hard as he was giving it to her.

She was on the brink of coming, and so was he, and her incoherent moaning was enough to make him want to just give in, but he refused. _Ladies first_. Just a few more thrusts and she was there, screaming into the covers, her cunt impossibly tighter than ever, and then he was coming too, only it felt more like all of the anguish and stress and fucking loneliness he had felt in the recent years was pouring out of his soul all at once. He folded over her, utterly spent. Finally he pulled out and collapsed onto the covers beside her, panting and smiling like an idiot.

But she was smiling too. And at him, no less. It was the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. He reached over and placed his hand on her cheek. He hadn't intended for it to mean "come hither," but she seemed to take it as an invitation to do so, since she was kissing him again, lazily, casual, as though they had known each other for ages. It made Malcolm's chest feel constricted, and a yearning came over him. He was lost again. _What is this? What are we doing?_ He wanted to ask, but he was fearful of what her answer would be. She must have sensed his growing concern; she pulled away and examined his face for clues.

"What is it?" she questioned, "Assuming I'm free to speak as I like now, anyway."

He managed a laugh. "Yes, Clara, say whatever you want. And it's nothing. Just, you know, the aftermath of the first good fuck in forever, that's all." He hoped it sounded more convincing than it felt.

"Just ' _good_?'" She looked offended.

"Well, no, I mean, you were fucking great! Seriously, I can't stress enough how incredible you were- _are_ ," He hated backtracking.

"Relax, Malcolm, I'm just teasing you." She was still scrutinizing his expression. "There's something you're not saying. What's on your mind? Come on, you can tell me."

 _At times of stress, I tell jokes._ "I was really thinking I could do the whole gigolo thing, you know?" He cracked a smile. She laughed, thankfully, so he continued. "Yeah, I think this was a pretty fucking successful trial run. And I won't even charge you- you're like my beta tester. Be sure to leave your comments in the suggestion box, yeah?"

She had this magnificent dimple on one side when she smiled; Malcolm was fixated on it. But then it was fading, and her face was serious again. "Tell me," she insisted again, but her voice was soft.

She was doing it again, extracting truth from him. He felt like she had sliced him up the middle and was poking around at his internal organs; one wrong move and he was a goner. Fuck that, he already was a goner. He averted his eyes from hers. "I don't want this to end," he confessed quietly. He fiddled with a lock of her hair, rolling the strands between his fingers. "You, here with me. Your smile, your warmth. The smell of you, the sound of you, all of it. I want this to go on forever."

"Oh, Malcolm…" She grabbed hold of the hand that was playing with her hair, and brought it to her lips, kissing his knuckles delicately.

"But that's not what you want, is it? 'Closure,' you said, that's what's supposed to come next. Tomorrow you'll leave and go back to your life to continue healing. And the sight of me would only make things harder for you. Since I look like _him_. Fuck him. Seriously. Fuck him, and fuck tomorrow. It's not fucking fair."

Clara didn't answer. She kept his hand pressed to her mouth, a stopper on the spout of her words, which would no doubt confirm his fears. Malcolm grimaced, still unable to meet her gaze; it would hurt too much in this moment.

They laid there in silence, neither of them willing to share their thoughts. The moments dragged on. Malcolm closed his eyes and focused on the sensation of her lips against his skin, cataloguing every detail in the event that his memories would be all he had left of her after this.

After some time, she seemed ready to give him a response. Slowly she brought his hand away from her mouth, and she placed her hand on the side of his face, directing it toward hers, making him look at her finally. Malcolm's heart was pounding painfully.

"What if… you _are_ that closure? What if, in order to heal, I need you by my side, to make me laugh, to remind me why life is still worth living? I've been so distracted thinking about the past and what could have been, and then you've come along and shown me was _can_ be. And now, as I imagine the future… I can't picture you not being a part of it."

Malcolm propped himself up on his elbows. "Do you mean that? Don't fucking say it if you don't mean it. And I'm not a replacement, okay? I have no desire to be a surrogate for the bloke who broke your heart."

"I do mean it, Malcolm. I've been chasing a dream. It's time for something real." She brought her lips to his then, and nothing had ever tasted sweeter in his life. They pooled together, limbs entangling as they sought to leave no space between them. And when sleep finally came for them, they remained interlocked, two lost souls clinging to their last remaining chance at happiness.

※ ※ ※

Malcolm woke to the sound of his mobile buzzing on his nightstand, and reflexively he reached a long arm over and answered, without consciously deciding that's what he wanted to do.

"What?" he growled.

[Good fucking morning, my undead friend! Welcome back to the land of the living!]

It was Jamie. He would recognize that Lanarkshire accent anywhere, even while half-asleep. Malcolm sighed. He shouldn't have answered the phone.

[Oh, come on, don't be like that, Malc. I've really missed you, you know? Whit like?]

"I'm fucking fine, Jamie. What's this about? Why are you calling me this fucking early in the morning?"

[Yeah, it looks like you've been doing fine. You see, there's this great fucking photo of you on the Daily Mail this morning, I think you ought to have a look. Go ahead, I'll stay on the line.]

Malcolm groaned and sat up, slipped out of Clara's slumbering grasp, and stumbled his way downstairs to where his laptop was sitting on the table and flipped it open. Meanwhile he could hear Jamie shouting at someone in the background. He had to admit, at least to himself, he had missed his ferocious friend. Just a bit. Groggily, Malcolm pulled up the Daily Mail's website.

[Did you see it yet? Come on, what are you on fucking dial-up?]

Then there it was, in giant, bold letters: **I'll take my order to go! Former Director of Communications at Number 10, Malcolm Tucker, was recently released from prison. And now he's been spotted 'canoodling' with a suspected prostitute in a waitress costume outside his home.** The accompanying photo was that of Malcolm and Clara snogging on his front porch, his hands visibly squeezing her arse.

[I'll take your silence to mean you've seen it then? Great fucking shot, Malc. Tell me you actually fucked her. And then tell me what her fucking rate is. I wouldn't even mind your sloppy seconds with a wifie like that!] Jamie was laughing.

Malcolm was not. "Shut the fuck up, Jamie. She's not a fucking prostitute. Who-" He let out an exasperated sigh. "Who the fuck is responsible for this? Because I am about to grab my fucking prison shiv and fucking stab them in the fucking throat!"

[Ooh, you've still got it! Hey, maybe I can still get you a job over here, you know? I don't know if you're already aware, but I uh, I kind of got your old job, min. But I could always use an experienced assistant, someone like you-]

Malcolm hung up the phone and then flung it across the room with a loud clatter. He stormed over to the windows to glare out across the street in an attempt to pinpoint from where the photo was taken. They were going to be very fucking sorry they had ever even purchased a camera by the time he was done with them.

 _Clara_. He had probably woken her by now. He had to let her know about the flaming pile of shit that had been thrown at them, the sooner the better so they could figure out how to deal with it. He took the stairs two at a time, and raced down the hall to his bedroom. As she sleepily rubbed her eyes against the early morning light, he announced, "We've got a problem."


	6. Chapter 6

Clara glanced over at the digital clock on Malcolm's nightstand: it was just after six in the morning. Far too early. She forced her eyes to remain open as Malcolm approached the foot of the bed.

"Wot?" she asked, blearily.

"Someone snapped a photo of us last night, and now the Daily Mail is saying I've been spotted with a trollop in a waitress costume."

"That's ridiculous. Why would they think I'm a prostitute?" Clara pouted, crossing her arms.

"It makes for better news. You're sexy. They suspect I can't keep any company I didn't pay for. Those are just some reasons that come to mind. I was pretty openly critical of their shitty fucking excuse for a publication, so I'm guessing they're not my biggest fans." He chewed the side of his thumb for a moment in thought.

"Can I see the photo?"

"Come on downstairs, I'll put on some coffee and show you the post." He held out his hand to help her up.

Clara pulled the covers off, still naked. She watched him get distracted by it for a moment.

"Do you, erm… do you want to borrow some clothes?" he offered, though she sensed a reluctance at the idea of covering her up.

Clara snatched up his steel grey jumper from the floor and pulled it on. It smelled of him, which was just as comforting as the soft material against her skin. The sleeves were too long, but the hem of it was long enough to cover her bum. Malcolm was staring at her, the hunger of last night returning to his eyes.

"Oi," she snapped her fingers to get his attention, "Let's focus. Priorities first, you can ogle me later."

"You promise?" he said with a grin as he stepped forward to encircle her in his arms. He kissed her, briefly, then led her downstairs.

As the coffee brewed, Malcolm showed Clara the article on his laptop.

 _God, what a hot picture._ Clara had to resist asking him to save it to his desktop- perhaps after they had decided how to deal with the article. But looking at it brought back all the memories of the previous night's passions, and she felt herself blush with residual desire. _FOCUS, Clara._ The photo didn't really show her face, so that was a bonus for her at least. But it was plainly Malcolm in the photo; nobody could miss his distinctive eyebrows above his closed eyes, and obviously it was his house. And he had two handfuls of her arse… Clara couldn't help but feel a little bit proud of how bloody good she looked in it. She secretly wanted to thank the photographer.

"Okay, so it's not so bad, is it? I mean, do you think anyone will take it seriously? I thought the Mail has been crap for years." Clara looked to Malcolm for his response.

"Well, yeah, luckily they didn't get a clear shot of your face anyway. So that's good. But unfortunately people still read this shite, and I only found out about it because my former associate rang me up. So that means, more than likely, everyone I used to know has seen it."

"But you said you don't want anything to do with all of that, right?"

"True, but it's still my reputation on the line here. If I want to have any hopes of finding a new career, this isn't going to go away anytime soon."

Clara chewed her lip in thought. She had been wondering how to bring it up, and this seemed like as good a time as any. "We could run away," she suggested.

Malcolm scoffed, smiling. "That sounds romantic."

"I mean it." She stood and looked up at him. "Let's just leave them all behind. We can go anywhere, anywhere you want. Come on, there's got to be someplace you've always wanted to go…" She looped her arms around his neck and pressed against him.

He completed the embrace by wrapping his arms around her waist, his face thoughtful. "Okay, _hypothetically speaking_ , assuming we really could just drop everything and go wherever we pleased, I suppose I'd choose… Reykjavik. To see the Aurora Borealis and all that."

His answer surprised her, though after thinking about it some more, he didn't seem the type who would be particularly drawn to sunny, tropical settings or the like. "Okay, that's a start. But let's get creative. Since we're talking hypotheticals, what if you could go anywhere, _anytime_? Hm?"

He was puzzled by her line of questioning, as to be expected. She enjoyed confounding him. "Oh, well, in that case… how about fucking Egypt, aye? Let's see how they built the damn pyramids then. We'll tell them we're gods, and we'll have a fucking ton of cats."

"Is that the best you can do? Let's think outside the box! Really stretch your imagination! What's your favorite heavenly body?"

"Yours." He gave her arse a playful squeeze. "But I've always liked Saturn, I guess."

"Saturn it is then. Let's have some coffee, you pack some things, and we'll go." Clara strode over to the french press and poured them each a mug of thick, black coffee. It smelled revitalizing. As she passed his cup over, Malcolm was scrutinizing her.

"Are you a well-adjusted nutter or what? Because that would be just my luck if you're actually fucking barmy."

"I resent your implication, sir! Just trust me. All we need is to swing by the diner."

"Are you an addict? Are you talking about dropping fucking acid or something?"

"Hush. Drink your coffee."

After their mugs were emptied, it took some considerable persuasion to actually convince Malcolm to pack for a "trip." He kept trying to figure out what she meant, or getting distracted by the sight of her in his sweater. Eventually she changed back into her waitress dress, and he loaned her a long coat in case there were any lingering journalists waiting outside to snap some more photos of them. At last she coaxed him to get in the car and drive to the diner.

As she had presumed, Ashildr was inside, sitting at the counter and writing in one of her journals. When she looked up to see Clara and Malcolm enter, the immortal's eyes widened. "You didn't."

"It's not what you're thinking, Ashildr. I'll explain later. In the meantime, meet Malcolm Tucker. Malcolm, Ashildr." Clara ushered him in and gestured for him to shake Ashildr's hand.

"That's quite the uncommon name," Malcolm remarked. "Is that… Nordic?"

"It's not my name," Ashildr argued, sending Clara a grave look. "I'm Me."

Clara didn't want to get into all that just now. She pulled Malcolm by the elbow to the back of the diner, and called back to Ashildr, "Are you ready to head out? Or did you still need some time here?"

"Where exactly are we headed? And is your little friend here _joining us?_ Because I think we need to have a chat first-" Naturally Ashildr was hesitant about bringing on another passenger, especially one who looked just like the Doctor. Clara felt bad that she couldn't have given her some more warning, but eventually she would understand.

Malcolm muttered under his breath to Clara, "Did she just call me 'little?'"

Clara waved a dismissive hand at him and responded to the woman with her arms crossed at the counter. "Yes, he's coming with us. And we're going to Saturn."

Ashildr sighed. "Again?"

"His choice, not mine," Clara explained.

Malcolm's eyebrows raised, incredulous. "Oh, so you've been to Saturn _before,_ then?"

"Yeah, she's not a big fan though. She thinks it's boring."

"Well it is!" Ashildr insisted. "There's nowhere to land, and the rings are just bits of ice. Boring."

"Don't listen to her," Clara told Malcolm. She placed gripped the handle of the door to the TARDIS console room. "Are you ready? We're about to pass the point of no return, the final threshold, etcetera," she said with a smirk, hearkening back to his previous Phantom reference.

Malcolm was still hesitant to believe anything that was happening, but he gestured for her to open the door. "No going back now."

Clara pulled the door open to reveal the heart of the TARDIS, with its pristine white everything, and the engine began to hum excitedly as they entered. She watched him try to process what he was seeing; she understood why the Doctor had always loved showing off his TARDIS. It invoked such an immediate sense of wonder: upon seeing it for the first time, one could _feel_ the boundless possibilities lingering inside its domain.

"How… Hang on, the diner isn't this big," Malcolm stated, whirling around. He pushed through the door again and jogged out of the diner, to have a second look at the structure of it. Clara and Ashildr exchanged knowing smiles.

"You _will_ explain yourself, Clara," Ashildr ordered.

"Yeah, of course."

Malcolm stormed back in, rushed past Clara, and re-entered the console room. "That's not possible. Is this virtual reality?"

Clara was impressed, she hadn't heard that possible explanation before. "Nope. It's _real_ reality. This," she said with her arms wide as she presented her stolen time machine, "is a TARDIS. And with it we can travel anywhere in time and space. So, let's set the course for Saturn, and I'll show you what she can do."

Ashildr finally joined them and assisted in plotting the coordinates. Clara noticed her watching Malcolm carefully. Meanwhile he was utterly fascinated by all the lights and sounds; she could hardly wait to see his expression once they arrived. They set the course to hover just above the rings of Saturn, out of harm's way and with a full view of the amber-hued giant.

When the engine stopped, signalling their arrival, Clara took Malcolm by the hand and led him through the diner. The front windows were reflecting the diner's interior, obscuring the view of what was waiting beyond. Malcolm seemed to slow his gait, dubious, so she pulled him along more urgently. Finally, she gestured for him to open the doors. With a final look in her direction, he pushed the doors open.

And there before them was the staggeringly massive visage of the ringed planet, with the millions of ice particles swirling slowly around it, reflecting the distant sunlight. Clara watched as Malcolm's face shifted through various stages of awe, and she knew she had made the right choice in bringing him. Despite his somewhat spiky personality, he was a man who appreciated beauty, and he was not as cynical as he led people to believe. She saw his eyes mist over a bit; he was overwhelmed by the sight of it, and he covered his mouth in astonishment. Then he turned to her, his amazement continued as he gazed into her eyes.

"This is impossible. _You're_ impossible," he quietly exclaimed, as if he had trouble speaking suddenly.

"I told you so," Clara replied, and kissed her new companion.

* * *

EPILOGUE

 _Year: 2016_

 _Location: Saturn_

 _Company: Clara, and her new obsession_

 _Refreshing though it may be to finally see Clara smiling again, I have some serious reservations about her new pet. It can't be healthy, to traipse about with this… copy of the Doctor. Though I can immediately tell the difference in his overall demeanour, he still looks far too similar to the Time Lord. I worry that his presence will prove to be more harmful than helpful. And I worry about the nature of their interest in each other… Lust is perfectly fine, by all means, but misinterpreting it as something deeper is foolish. As I write this, they're snogging desperately at the front door, overlooking the bland scene of Saturn beyond. He's seen it all now; she can't simply return him to Earth. And what of the trap street? She'll have to return some day, to finally accept her death. Oh, Clara Oswald, do you realize the consequences of your actions?_

 _She spent too much time with the Doctor. I think she means to be her own version of him. Maybe she'll call herself the Teacher. She's got her plaything now, a mirror image of the Doctor, whom she can show around to all the wonders of time and space. How therapeutic._

 _And once again, I am forgotten. But if my interminable life has taught me anything, it is patience. I am the most patient woman who ever lived, ever._

 _I will wait. And opportunity will come knocking, as it always does in the end._

 _Gods, I hate Saturn._

 _-Me_


End file.
